The Power of Deduction
by kimzie-kitty
Summary: Mrs. Hudson's granddaughter moves into 221C and meets the strange Sherlock Holmes. Will she fall for the man she promised her grandmother she wouldn't? Can the asexual man love anyone but himself? What happens when Moriarty becomes curious about Sherlock's other new companion? Eventual Sherlock/OC
1. 221 C

**I've recently received quite an angry message concerning this first chapter, and decided to revise this, only to prevent such things from happening again.**

**No offense ever intended in this story. My characters are not perfect, and tend to not understand somethings fully.**

**Enjoy xx**

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Journal Entry One:

_My grandmother told me many stories of him rushing in and about crimes, and even how he helped make sure grandfather kept his death sentence. Now, you must be thinking, what an odd sentence that is! Keep his own death sentence? Why on earth would my grandmother want her own husband killed? _

_My grandfather was a horrible man. But like most horrible men,, he wasn't so terrible at first. __Grandmother said he was kind at once, but when he was in his late 30's, his family died in a horrible fire, and he kind of snapped. Just stopped caring, all at once, perhaps._

_You see, my grandfather __was thought to be__ bipolar, and may of had multiple personality disorder. It was never diagnosed, but all the signs were there, __signs of a man who had a terrible past__. _

_He __once__ beat my poor grandma senseless, and in the morning, 'Frank' c__a__me back into his own brain, he __a__sk__ed__ millions of questions of how the bruises got there!_

_The police refused to do anything about it, which angers the both of us to this day, because 'they had too many sick and mentally deranged people already' and didn't want to deal with anymore. _

_According to my grandmother, he was the one who ensured my mum would crash her car by tampering with the breaks and even hiring a semi-truck to park right smack dab in the middle of the road. She died, just like he wanted, and laughed about it even! Well, the 'Elliot' side of him did. _

_Elliot always scared me... he would ramble on about how the world was 'unpure', and all the blacks, Mexicans, and Jews need to die to create a pure race. _

_Later on, right before he finally got arrested, he began to say that the world needed to die and let the apes re-evolve. _

_The police said that he went about killing people in their sleep, suffocating them. He'd then take all their blankets that were on their bed, and fold them up and set them in a neat pile at the end of their bed. [A bit OCD I guess he was too.] Sherlock found lots of drugs, that he'd use to make sure that they'd fall asleep and stay asleep easily. He was clinically insane, and when Sherlock caught him, he was sentenced to death without a fight, because no lawyer even tried to fight for him. That was until one of his friends in the court tried to pull the 'he's too insane to realize what he's doing' card. But thankfully, Sherlock helped with that too. After that all blew over, it was so evident he was guilty, that no one even bothered. _

_Alright, well enough back story. My name is Melissa Hudson, I'm 28 years old, and I have long dark brown hair that goes just to the crook of my elbow. My eyes are a deep ocean-y blue, and I have quite the mouth, my mum always said. My father is just a name, Zachary. My mum got knocked up at the age of 19, and here I am. From what mum told me, he bolted as soon as he learned she was pregnant. _

_After Mum died, when I was 25, I got really close with my grandmother. I finished college at the university last year. I'm upset to admit that I'm currently unemployed, living off my mom's life insurance until I find a job and a proper home. My grandmother, always the sweet lady, offered me the downstairs of her flat. She lives on the ground floor, and she said that she was going to rent out the top floor, and the bottom. _

_I'm just about to move into the same building as my grandmother._ I realized, and stopped writing in my journal for a moment, staring around my old flat where my mum and I lived.

_She has two flats, 221B, and 221C. I'm going to move into 221C because she says she has someone looking at B and doesn't want me to ruin her chances. The only bad thing about 221C is, that it's in the basement, under the house. Always drafty and chilly, but mostly – usually – very normal. No gloom like most basements. There are windows near the ceiling, right in line with the street, so I have plenty of light and my grandmum cleaned up the place for me too. She had carpets installed in the bedroom, and hardwood in the bathroom, kitchen, and living room. I'm just about to be on my way now to finish moving in the last few boxes of living-room and bedroom things._

_xoxo_

_Mel_

I shut my leather bound journal and slipped it into my cross-body brown leather bag that I took everywhere.

_Well, time to survey the house one more time before I leave_. I thought, getting up.

I did just that, looking around all the rooms, and under the old furniture, making sure not a single thing was left behind. Once I was satisfied with the condition of the flat, I stepped out, two suitcases and one box in hand, and flagged down a taxi.

Climbing into the back with ease, I set the box on the seat next to me, while the taxi driver put my suitcases into the back.

I heard a car door slam and I glanced up to see the driver peer at me through his rear view mirror. "Where to?"

I bit my lip, and repeated my address. "221 Baker Street, please."

He nodded and off we went, passing by all the familiar places. The pub, the restaurants I'd been to on past dates, the hospital, and the park. Finally, we came to a stop right outside my new abode.

_221 Baker Street._

The cabby pulled to a stop, and the man announced our arrival.

I smiled and nodded, handing him the correct amount, plus a bit more for a tip. He helped me with my two suitcases, and I walked up the few stairs before ringing the bell once. My hand turned the knob and I walked in.

"Grandmum?" I called, and I saw her standing at the top of the stairs, in the 221B living room, with two other gentlemen.

"Oh!" She exclaimed, rushing down the stairs to meet me in a big hug. "Mel! I completely forgot about you coming today!" she held me at arms length and looked at me. "My apologies."

I smiled brightly and glanced up the stairs to see two gentlemen staring down curiously at us.

"Ah, where are my manners?" she said, a bit flustered. "Come, come!" She walked up the stairs, motioning me to follow. I set down my boxes by the front door and followed her up, wiping my hands self-consciously on my jeans before reaching the top step.

"Sherlock, John, this is my granddaughter, Melissa." she stated and pointed out Sherlock and John to me.

I smiled politely and nodded at them both, before I locked eyes briefly with the man I'd heard so much about, but never had the pleasure to meet. Sherlock had curly dark brown hair, so dark it seemed black, and some of the most piercing gray eyes I'd ever seen. He looked to be about 31, while John had short blonde hair, a cane, and blue eyes. To me, he seemed older than Sherlock, probably about 35 or 36. During this short moment, I heard her say, "Melissa, this is Sherlock and John."

I sighed and raked a hand through my hair. "You don't have to say their names twice, Gran, I'm not deaf." I mumbled, and I noticed Sherlock and John's lips twitch up in small smirks. My gran, being ever the elder, didn't hear my comment, and continued to ramble on about the apartment.

As she spoke, I kept my eyes trained on her, but I could practically feel Sherlock's eyes studying me, taking in every single small detail about my person, figuring out what I was like, who I was. It was quite unnerving, actually, and I almost wished he would stop.

"Would you please stop studying me so intensely, Mr. Power of Deduction?" I heard myself snap, and color immediately rushed to my cheeks, never fully comfortable with my sharp tongue. My mouth always spat out comments before I could think of the consequences, it seemed.

I heard John, from the other side of the room, laugh, and my grandmum just stared at me.

"Melissa!" she swatted me on my arm, and then, after a moment's thought, my cheek. "Mind your tongue girl!"

I huffed in frustration. "My apologizes."

His face was a blank slate, simply studying me without emotion. "She's heard of me then." he said, almost to himself, but partially to Grandmum.

She nodded and told him about how she told me about Grandfather after my mum died.

"That's the sadness you've faced." he said, staring at me even more curiously. "Explains the slight wrinkle in between your brows. Frown lines, but you seem like a more happy person." He rambled off, mumbling details and explanations as he walked away to the other side of the room.

"What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be _needing_ two bedrooms." my grandmother asked, thankfully taking the attention off myself for a while. Sherlock wondered off to the far right side of the room, messing with books and other things of the sort, almost oblivious to the fact my grandmother – bless her soul – thought that they were gay.

A chuckle escaped my lips. I could easily tell that these two men were not lovers in any form.

"Of course we'll be needing two!" John said seconds after my chuckle escaped.

"Grandmum!" I said in a loud whisper. "They aren't-"

She cut me off, waving her hand airily. "Oh don't worry, there's all sorts 'round here." she dropped her voice and looked pointedly at Sherlock before turning to John and I. "Mrs Turner has got married ones!"

John looked at Sherlock, as if he wanted him to confirm that they were not, in fact, 'lovers' or anything of the sorts.

He didn't_, _which both John and I both seemed to find extremely unsettling and awkward.

"Oh, Sherlock." she chided, ever the motherly figure. "The mess you've made." she quickly scurried into his kitchen, and I saw some sort of lab experiment settled on the small table.

I walked over to the mantle, to stare curiously at the skull.

"Is that-?" I asked, and John hobbled over, brows furrowed.

"Why – but – that's a skull." he stumbled out.

"Friend of mine." Sherlock shrugged, and walked over, picking up the skull and tossing it between his hands. "When I say 'friend'..." he trailed off, before setting back down.

I opened my mouth to speak, but heard Sherlock's voiced in place of my own. "Yes, I do indeed mean that the skull was never my friend in any way, shape, or form."

I shook my head and John mumbled, "Amazing." he spoke up a bit louder this time. "I looked you up on the internet last night."

"Really?" I asked, looking over at Sherlock to gauge his reaction before looking back to the skull. "What'd you find?"

"Yes, John. Anything interesting?" his eyes held a glint, but he seemed to already predict the following conversation. His uncanny ability to do that was unsettling, to say the least.

"Found you website, The Science of Deduction."

Sherlock smiled proudly. "What did you think?"

John huffed and looked like he thought he was kidding. His companion's brows furrowed and John continued. "You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and airline pilot by his left thumb."

_'Mr. Power of Deduction'_ grinned a bit. "Yes; and I can read your military career in your face, and leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone." he turned to me.

_Oh, this ought to be good._

"You, on the other hand, I can see that you lost your mum, perhaps your dad, you just graduated college, you're right handed, and," his eyes darted around in the most uncomfortable way. "You don't like to step out of your comfort zone, but that zone is quite large for a 25 year old."

I laughed. "Close."

He smirked, turning away.

My grandmum walked out of the kitchen with a newspaper in her hand. "What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Three exactly the same."

Three pairs of eyes turned to look at him, awaiting his answer. I could hear a police siren getting closer as he pondered his answer, and I already knew what he was going to say.

"Four." we said at the same time, and he looked impressed that I'd deducted that as well.

"There's been a fourth, and there's something different this time." his eyes got a maniac gleam in them, and he started to pace back and forth.

"A fourth?" Grandmum and John asked at the same time.

We heard footsteps and the four of us turned to the door. A man probably in his late forties or early fifties appeared. He had dark gray hair and wise brown eyes. By the looks of his attire and the fact that he arrived in a police car, I figured that he was an inspector or something.

"Where?" Sherlock asked immediately.

The man sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He shot a dirty look at Sherlock, before turning towards me. "Hello, I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade." he shook my hand and I smiled politely.

"Hi. I'm Melissa. Mrs. Hudson's my grandmum." I explained and he smiled back.

"Where?" Sherlock demanded again, getting ever so impatient.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." Lestrade said and Sherlock looked confused.

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different." curiosity and an animosity to solve a puzzle filled the consultant's gray eyes.

"You know how they never leave notes?"

Sherlock nodded once. "Yeah."

"This one did. Will you come?"

I started to walk towards the stairs. "Grandmum, I'm headed to my apartment." I said as a matter of factly.

She nodded and tossed me a key. I caught it and started to walk down the stairs. Once I walked down the second flight of stairs and opened my new flat door, I heard Sherlock stomp down his stairs.

"Brilliant! Yes!" I peered out my door to see him dancing around. I chuckled and went back to unpack my suitcases. His voice traveled still. "Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it's _Christmas_!"

I heard him stomp back up his stairs and I continued to unpack. Part of me wished he would invite me along, but he had John. Why would he even think to invite me?

I heard two sets of feet walk down the stairs, and my grandmum say, "Both of you?"

I heard him turn around and pace the foyer. "Impossible suicides? Four of them? There's no point sitting at home when there's finally something FUN going on!"

I decided to peek my head out the door and look up the stairs. 

"Oy!" I called. "What's going on? Why so much noise, Sherlock?"

He beamed down at me. "Melissa! It's wonderful! Four suicides! Impossible suicides I might add!"

John looked at him like he was a bit loony.

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent." my grandmum laughed and Sherlock kissed her noisily on the cheek.

He whirled around and his hand rested on the door.

"Are you coming, Mel?" he called over his shoulder. "Could always use another opinion!"

I blinked once, twice, a look of confusion spreading across my face. "Really?"

He nodded and John smiled. "The more the merrier!"

"Give me one moment!" I called as I rushed back into my apartment, snatched up my bag and ran up the stairs.

They were already outside hailing a taxi, and I jumped into the back with them, seeing as how the front seat of the cab was filled with trash and things of the sorts.

"Sorry." I whispered as I accidentally squished poor John in between Sherlock and I.

He smiled and nodded, eyes looking in disgust at the front seat. "It's fine." he lowed his voice. "If it's any better, I wouldn't want to sit up their either."

We rode in silence for a while until Sherlock finally got off his phone.

Sheesh! He was on that thing more than most teenagers were!

"Okay." he said, turning towards us. "You've got questions."

He studied the both of us, and John spoke up.

"Yeah, where are we going?"

"Crime scene. Next?"

"How the hell are you so smart?" that was mine.

He turned to me. "Elementary, my dear."

"Who are you? What do you do?" John looked at him as if he just now saw him. The look was that of confusion.

"What do _you_ think?" a curious smirk drifted across his face.

"I say he's a loony sociopath – but – a very brilliant, mad sociopath." I cut in, even though the question was directed at John.

John shook his head. "I say...private detective?"

"But?" he questioned.

"Why would the police go to you?" I put it, and Sherlock nodded.


	2. The Cabby

"Consulting detective. Only one in the world." a proud grin spread across his face. "I invented the job."

"What does that mean?" John asked.

_Great scott, this man was a bit dim, wasn't he?_

"It means when the police are out of their depth, which is _always_ -''

"They go to _you?_ For help?" I looked at him, a tad bit confused.

"But you're an amateur?" John stated.

Sherlock snorted. "When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, "Afghanistan or Iraq?" you looked surprised."

"You are?" I looked at John, who nodded.

"Afghanistan?" I guessed, and he nodded once.

"Army doctor."

"How did you know, Sherlock?" I asked, turning to the man.

A smirk drifted across the man's lips. "I didn't know, I saw." he gestured at John's hair with his hand. The haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room..."

"I said bit different from my day." John told me, and Sherlock nodded annoyingly.

"Said trained at Bart's so Army Doctor -obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan-"

"Above the wrists." I cut him off, remembering the tan line I saw when I shook John's hand earlier.

Sherlock looked slightly surprised, but only for a split second. Then, he was back to his blank, emotionless face. "You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic."

"Wounded in action?" I mused to myself and Sherlock and John both nodded once. "So because he was wounded in action, you got Afghanistan or Iraq."

"You said I had a therapist?" the doctor furrowed his brows, and Sherlock turned to glance out the window before looking back at John like he was daft.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp – of course you've got a therapist. Then, there's you brother."

"Hmm?" John mused, and I bit back a chuckle. My grandmother had told me a bit about John and Sherlock before hand. He had a sister, not a brother.

_And so the great deducer slipped up._

Sherlock held his hand out. "Your phone?" his 'friend' handed it to him uncertainly, and Sherlock started rambling about his phone. "It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flat share – you wouldn't waste money on this."

"It's a gift, we know." I said, my eyes catching on the shiny engraving on the back.

"Precisely." the detective nodded. "Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. So easy I bet even Melissa could figure it out."

"The engraving." John and I said at the same time.

I read the worn engraving quickly.

_Harry Watson_

_From Clara_

_xxx_

I stopped the smirk from drifting over my face. He didn't know John's sister fancied girls instead of boys. How could he?

"Harry Watson: clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. _Could_ be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left _him_, he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left _her_. He gave the phone to _you_: that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help: that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you _don't_ like his drinking."

While Sherlock looked out the window, I looked at John, nudging him.

'_Sister.' _I mouthed and we both burst out laughing.

Sherlock turned to us, confused. "What?"

"How could you know about the drinking?" John asked, ignoring Sherlock's previous question.

He grinned. "Shot in the dark."

"Can I see?" I asked and he handed the phone to me.

I looked at it curiously and saw the scratch marks around the phone.

I remember the phone my mum had given me when I was young – my first phone. Said it was Zach's. One reason I'm here was because Zach was a drunk – a teen drunk – the worst kind. The phone's charger was so messed up due to his hands shaking and trying to plug it in at night.

"The tiny little scuff marks by the charger slot is from his hands shaking, yeah?"

John looked a bit shocked that I could pick that out, but the both of them nodded.

I handed John back his phone. "We were right." I told him and he blinked.

"About what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs."

Sherlock looked back out the window and I decided to do some of my own deducting. _Biting his lip – a nervous tendency or habit on most. Deducting in front of people he just meets – wants to impress people, slightly show-off-y. Doesn't show emotions – rather he thinks that emotions are a weakness, or he's cared before and gotten hurt because of it. Now he could think that only way to stay sane is by doing the opposite – not caring. _

"That was amazing." John told him, and turning to me. "Not so bad yourself, Mel."

I smiled, murmuring thank you.

Sherlock looked around, obviously not expecting that reaction. I found this odd, considering he seemed to be so good at his skill, and most skills take years of practice. You'd think he'd be used to praise on this particular skill, but he didn't seem to be.

He was silent for a good five seconds. "Do you both think so?" he asked uncertainly, nervously.

I bobbed my head up and down. "'Course it was. I couldn't do that."

_Eager to impress and slightly show-off-y, confirmed._ I smiled inwardly.

Sherlock snorted. "I know _you _couldn't." I could have sworn he said. _Because you're a girl._ But I wasn't certain.

"Of course it was!" John said, ignoring his companion's rudeness yet again. "It was extraordinary."

I nodded again. "Quite extraordinary."

"That's not what normal people say." he mumbled, looking down.

"What do they say? You're a freak?" I asked, and I caught a hint of a flush traveling up his pale neck.

It disappeared at Sherlock looked at us seriously. "Piss off."

"What?" John said, and I sighed.

"People tell him to piss off."

Sherlock grinned at me and I grinned back briefly. The rest of the journey was silent. Mostly us looking out the windows.

~0~

The cab pulls to a stop at Lauriston Gardens and we all get out of the cab. Sherlock saw and African American lady at the police line, and he sighed in frustration.

"Did I get anything wrong?" he asked and John and I met eyes, still chuckling about Sherlock saying Harry was a boy.

"Harry and me don't get on, never have." John shrugged. "Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker."

Sherlock smirked, looking like he wanted to give himself a gold medal. "Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything."

I glanced at John again. "Can I tell him or do you want to?"

John shrugged, "Go ahead."

"Sherlock, Harry's short for Harriet."  
He stopped dead in his tracks and facepalmed. "Harry's your_ sister!" _he turned on his heel to face me. "How did you know?"

I shrugged, smiling slightly. "Mrs. Hudson told me about them. I guess she used to babysit her or something when she was younger."

He growled and continued to walk onwards.

"Look, what are we supposed to be doing here?" John asked as we got even closer to the police line.

Sherlock's fist were clenched and he wasn't even paying attention. I heard him grit out, "_Sister."_ as the army doctor repeated his question.

"No, seriously, what exactly are we supposed to be doing here?"

I nodded in agreement. I wondered why he wanted me to come along. There was no possible way he could have known about my minoring in forensic sciences!

"Hello, freak." the lady greeted, looking disgusted with the sight of Sherlock. I glanced down at her tag and saw that her name was Sally Donovan.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." he said as a matter of factly.

"Why?" Sherlock sighed and I watched as his fist clenched and unclenched. Some part of me realized she must always be such a pain in the arse.

"I was invited." he replied.

"Why?" she asked again, smirking at his anger.

"I think he might want him to take a look." I said, stepping forwards. I knew I should be minding my tongue, especially to an officer, but she was god-awful annoying. "But, you know, it's not like the Detective Inspector would care if you wouldn't let his consultant through." I shrugged and studied her face. The smirk had dropped, replaced with a scowl that fit her face better than anything else.

"Well, you know what I think, don't you Sherlock?" she said, as he lifted the tape and ducked underneath it.

"Always, Sally." he inhaled and his face scrunched up for a brief moment. "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

She blinked in surprise. "I don't- uh – er – who's this?" quickly changing the subject to what she probably thought was a more pressing matter, she gestured to John and I.

His eyes flickered to me, then back to John. "Colleagues of mine, Doctor Watson and..."

"Forensic scientist, Melissa Hudson." I nodded once, and Sherlock studied me again, like he did when we first met. "Old friends." I smiled at John and Sherlock, whom smiled back. Sherlock, not one to show much emotion, his smile dropped seconds after.

"A colleague, how do YOU get a colleague?" she studied us and then turned to John and I.

"What, did he follow you home? And is she your whore or something?" her eyes raked down my figure, taking in my gray sweater and turquoise/mint colored jeans/

"Excuse me?" I heard myself snap, and my hand itched to bitch slap her across the face.

"No." he said a moment after. He lifted the tape for John and I, and motioned us past.

Donovan sighed, rolling her eyes. Lifting the radio to her mouth, she said. "Freak's here, and he's brought some 'colleagues'."

She led us to the house and Sherlock was in his detective mode, his eyes darting everywhere, taking in the scene. A man dressed in a coverall came out of the house.

"Ah." Sherlock said in distaste. "Anderson. Here we are again."

Anderson's faced mirrored the distaste in the tall detective's voice. "It's a _crime scene. I don't want it contaminated._" he studied me for a moment, smirking. "Are we clear on that?"

He took another deep breath through his nose. "Quite clear. Is you wife away for long?"

He blinked in shock. "Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that."

I sniffed in curiosity, and smelt the same sort of smell I noticed over by Sally.

"Your deodorant told me that." Sherlock shrugged, glancing over at Sally.

"My deodorant?" Anderson's eyebrows raised.

Sherlock's face grew a quirky expression, almost smirking. "It's for men."

He shook his head, "Of _course_ it's for men! _I'm_ wearing it!"

"So's Sergeant Donovan." I said, sniffing once.

Sherlock smirked at me and smiled back before quickly breaking eye contact. Anderson was looking around in shock, obviously hoping no one heard.

He sniffed again. "Oooh." he made a face. "And I think it just vaporized. May we go in?"


End file.
